Land of Salvania

  As Sir Viktor emerged from the forest shadows, the moon cast an eerie glow upon the scene before him. The aftermath of the sorcerer's curse lay strewn across the clearing like the remnants of a tempestuous storm. Broken branches littered the ground, and scorched patches marked where arcane energies had burned the earth. With each careful step, Sir Viktor's senses remained alert, his grip firm on the hilt of his great sword. He scanned the area, searching for any sign of movement or danger. His years of training as a knight had honed his instincts, and he trusted them implicitly. Suddenly, a faint whisper of wind stirred the air, carrying with it the acrid scent of burned sulphur. Sir Viktor tensed, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to unleash its energy. He knew the sorcerer was still nearby, lurking in the shadows like a predator waiting to strike. Drawing upon his courage and determination, Sir Viktor pressed forward, his resolve unyielding. He moved with a purpose, hi

  Sir Viktor squinted as the pockmarked, ball-shaped creature opened its hideous black mouth and sent a vivid white beam of light crashing into his shield. The force of the impact sent him stumbling backward, his boots scraping along the scorched rock. His shield, a relic from the Lost Days, vibrated fiercely under the assault, its ancient runes glowing a fierce blue in response. "Hold steady!" Sir Viktor shouted, more to himself than to anyone else. The creature's relentless attack showed no sign of abating, and the air around them crackled with energy. He could feel the searing heat even through his armor, beads of sweat forming on his brow. With a grunt of effort, Sir Viktor planted his feet firmly and leaned into the beam, his muscles straining against the overwhelming power. He glanced to his left, where Lady Elara was crouched behind a fallen pillar, her fingers tracing intricate patterns in the air. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and her lips moved in silen

  Sir Viktor heard the clatter of small stones fall from the heights up ahead. An unknown observer was watching him pick his way across the blasted landscape of rocks and scrub. His sword was out before the last click-clack died away. Unless the observer had a crossbow that could hurl a pike, Sir Viktor felt safe in his Elvenari armor. Still, decades of scrapes, tournaments, and battles ruled his reflexes and movements. "Put away your sword," a voice called. It was a woman's voice. She had an accent he could not quite place. Sir Viktor said nothing. The voice did not quit align with the location of the clattering stones. There were at least two observers among the boulders on the heights. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the rocky terrain. The wind whispered through the crevices, carrying faint echoes of movement, but the exact position of his hidden watchers eluded him. Sir Viktor's years on the battlefield had ho

Amid peril and sadness the knight continues on; not because he is strong - though he is, not because he is brave - though he tries, but because he knows not how to stop. What an admirable curse to place upon a mere mortal. /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

  Perhaps it was some magical foolery, Ritter thought, as the armies of Men joined with the Dwarven, Elvenari, and Yunni forces atop the ridge of black hills. The world seemed on fire as the harsh sunset filtered through putrid clouds and smoke. The wizard's tower stood alone atop a parched hill stripped clean by his foul magic and his unearthly army's depredations. The air smelled sulfurous. And the still air gave no respite to the foul vapors. /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

I had a great time visiting the Southeast Middle-Earth Ranger Society's October meetup. They are  "...a group of like minded individuals who enjoy researching and portraying the Ranger societies of Middle-Earth or similar worlds, both historical and fantasy. We are here because of a shared interest in the Ranger skills of the ancient past or Tolkienesque type worlds, including clothing, tools, methods, equipment, techniques, and weapons, for camping and surviving in the outdoors or wilderness areas. We are located in the Southeastern region of the USA, encompassing Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, North & South Carolina, and Florida." I look more like an out-of-place gate guard than a stealthy ranger.  I guess I have some work to do. Catherine cooked quail eggs in bratwurst grease.  Dee-freakin-licious! Carter's ranger kit is extraordinary. Jared was our generous host on his forested land. Carter is the undisputed record-holder for

  Photo by  Chrysander Mandragora The ragtag band of "heavies" trotted forward and looked down at the goblins massing along the tree line. Ceeeth raised his mace and bellowed from the center of the line, his war cry echoing down the valley. "Leave some for us," Ritter called as Ceeeth ran down the hill, still bellowing, his collection of ornaments and unsettling trophies jingling merrily. "Better hurry," Ceeeth cried over his shoulder without slowing.  He already had a small throwing ax arcing through the cool morning air toward an unfortunate target. /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

  Photo by Chrysander Mandragora Ritter, reeling from exhaustion after days of unrelenting battle, stared at the bloody carnage just a bowshot from the town's outer wall. The hasty coalition of men, elves, dwarves, hoblings, high orcs, and wylderkin worked amazingly well together, but one had to be careful about referring to one of the more savage scouts as "cat lady." /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

Here is a VERY short clip of Ritter at the Alliance LARP National Event in October 2023. For the full, action-packed video, visit Healthier Heroes: LARP Fitness! https://www.youtube.com/@HealthierHeroesLARP

  With great care, Sir Bucket unrolled the fragile, stained vellum. It had a burned edge, obscuring some of the unicorn and tree artwork along the margins. The flowing script read: Go thee now unto the grove Fear not the wolf nor bear Go thee now unto the grove And hear the knowledge there. Seek the tree within the grove So small and green and free Seek the tree within the grove What does it say to thee? Close thy eyes within the grove Listen with thy heart Close thy eyes within the grove And on thy journey start. Let thy soul drift far away Ride high upon the wind Let thy soul drift far away Drink deep at journey's end. At the bottom, she could barely read a last bit, written in a different hand. I, Wizard Owenstanish of White River, do now write with my own hand on this third day of summer, the 16th year of Queen Juliska of Salvania. This incantanto being the first of five found within a clay pot buried in the southern desert. She rolled the scroll again and closed her eyes, pond

  Sir Bucket stood at her assigned post on the ridge and trembled with fury as she watched the village burn below. She was glad her visor was down so her comrades could not see the tears running down her face. Most of her fellow castle guards were down there somewhere, fighting the gargs. The hated foe had somehow gotten organized enough to torch dozens of thatched cottages belonging mostly to the castle's crafters like stone masons and blacksmiths. She could not pick out her childhood home from this distance, and thick smoke further obscured her vision. The tears didn't help either. "Dragon! Dragon!" She looked up as her fellow guard pointed skyward with his sword. She drew hers as well, thinking it silly even as she automatically assumed her fighting stance. Fight a dragon with a sword? Silly indeed. But the prospect of action - and revenge - dried her tears and filled her thundering heart with a cold purpose. /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sc

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  Marion du Bucles, named "Sir Bucket" by her guard company's sergeant of the guard, had a dragon. Past tense. Scatter, the young green dragon she had been raising, mysteriously vanished one day. At first, she was not concerned. He was impetuous, and he often disappeared for hours at a time. But as days passed, she was positive that something was wrong. She spent every free hour scouring the forest. She initially expected to find him gnawing on a carcass relocated from a farmer's field. Later, she was afraid she would just find his bones. She grew so distraught, she even crossed the White River and started searching through troll territory. Everything was a little...strange in troll territory. Trees and plants were bigger than normal. Like mushrooms. She was amazed seeing mushrooms she could walk under! After a week of searching, she found dragon tracks that might have belonged to Scatter. He was still too young to fly much, otherwise tracking him on the gro

  Ritter's head was reeling from all the portal energy swirling through his body. He had stepped through a yellow portal which immediately turned green. Before him was a frozen vista, a vast plain of white snow drifts and moaning wind. He had turned and stepped through the green portal which turned blue as he exited. Now he was in a dense forest thick with moss and the drip of water off wide leaves. The incessant chirp of a million invisiable insects was almost deafening. Last, he staggered, dizziness building, through the blue portal which immediately turned purple. Now, he was inside a castle, the dim purple portal unchanged behind him. He sat heavily on the broad steps leading down to a torchlit corridor. It took a few minutes for him to notice his sword and shield were gone. How could that be? It shocked him that he could not clearly recall the last time he had them. In fact, he could not clearly recall much from the last few hours - or was it days? He still had the garg

  Marion du Bucles, "Sir Bucket" to her fellow castle guards, was filled with deep, abiding regret over helping the baby dragon escape from his gem-like shell. Only a month before, she had found the shimmering egg surrounded by fragments from its siblings' shells. Mother and babes were gone, leaving this one to the Fates. She had noticed a small chip in the shell, and after a few scrapes with her fingernail, out tumbled a gooey green dragon the size of a cat. He had bonded with her immediately, and Marion was "mom" now. For a month, she had been able to tend the rapidly growing dragon without drawing any attention. But now he was too big and too demanding to hide. He followed her everywhere and got into everything. Essentially, he was a toddler with large teeth and burning curiosity. She named him Scatter. Either people and animals scattered when they saw him, or he scattered things (like fences and water troughs) into pieces without knowing his own streng

  The sergeant of the guard led a long, clanking line of recruits up and down the castle's endless stone stairways, barking orders and throwing a hand out to indicate their guard post for the day. "Sir Bucket," he said. "You're here." He indicated an overlook tower facing an open field and the Dwarven Hills beyond. Bucles cringed at the snickers from the other recruits left in line. "Sir Bucket" was a label slapped on by the heartless sergeant as soon as they had met. "Alright, which one is," he had checked his scroll, "Buckells?" he had called out during morning formation. "It's pronounced 'boo-clays', sergeant," Bucles had added helpfully. It was the wrong move. The sergeant had stared at the recruit wearing a helmet that had seen better days - probably a family heirloom - and barked, "Well, since I'm too stupid to say it right, you'll just be Sir Bucket. Problem solved." Bucles wat

  Sir Viktor held the stone bridge alone, covering the retreat, until the wounded had been hauled back to the queen's castle. A few gargs had come at him, but after he had sent their heads rolling back to their comrades, the assailants suddenly recalled that discretion was the better part of valor. Man and garg had stared at each other for a few minutes, then the gargs withdrew, muttering. He caught the guttural term "skanaki." Later he asked a wizard what it meant. She blushed and said, "It means one with a large, uh, member." /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

  Sir Viktor was ready for dinner and a sip of ale. He had already relocated a number of gargs to their eternal hunting ground, and the rest had seemed to either flee the cavern or disappear into some dark side tunnel. But he had just one more thing to do... /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

Mithrandir breathed in the mountain air as the moon rose over Esgaroth. The pale moonlight glittered on the water, mingling with the warm glow of the lake town's lamps. The evening breeze stirred his grey robes. A dog barked somewhere within the walled town. All was as it should it, but for how long, he could not say. The world was turning, and the wise waited. (Inspired by "The Hobbit" by JRR Tolkien.) /// Copyright (Check out  Mick's Fantasy and Sci-Fi Emporium  for my curated list of goodies to satisfy your LARP and cosplay pleasure.  Look for the latest DISCOUNT codes from my partners.)

  There once was a knight on a quest. He galloped like mad to the west. It was quite a disgrace When the bug hit his face. He found it tough to digest. (I like this silly limerick because it leaves the door open to interpret what was so hard to digest: the bug or the disgrace of being hit by a bug.  Or both?) /// Copyright

  "I bet they write a song about us," Egil told his brother as they crunched across the snow-clad field outside the White River Castle. Einar snorted. "Songs are for the high born, not for us. I'll wager old Duke Roundbelly will take all the credit anyway." "His bard was writing something when we brought in the prisoner. Maybe it was about us," Egil insisted. "More likely, he'll sing about the murdering bitch and her felonious ways," Einer grumbled. "Fancy words. Felonious. Do you even know what it means?" "It means you should mind your own business for once." *** Just a few days earlier, they had been encamped off the road a day's hard ride from the siege at King Rience's castle. They were bringing news to the Duke that reinforcements were needed.  Twice the King's guard had tried to break out of the encircled castle, and twice they had been repulsed by the brothers and the Duke's surrounding arm

  The fourth and last shield was in place on the monument. A dozen scarred knights and dames silently raised their swords in salute. There were no profound speeches or weeping ladies in fine attire to pay homage to The Four. No nobles came forth to declare the bravery of The Four. No bard sang a song for them. The Four had held the line of retreat against a hundred gargs, falling back in good order while the townies had fled across the White River Crossing. When The Four had reached the bridge, they had stopped and held off the slavering creatures for two days and nights. None still living knew the full tale. One of The Four had been gravely wounded by a poisoned arrow, and he had scrawled a quick account for posterity. "Beware the green-tipped arrow of the foul savages," he had written. "For when the honorless creatures failed to best us with their numbers in a clean fight, they turned to cowardly poison. Mayhap they are not shrewd enough to make decent poison,

  Flint pulled a rune from the linen bag and placed it on the table across from the painted woman. Her elaborately decorated wagon was cloudy with incense. Outside, someone was playing a melancholy tune on on a violin. A dog barked, and children squealed. She leaned forward, tiny bells sewn into her red silk head cloth jingled. One of her hands hovered over the tile carved from a troll's lower tusk, her many rings glinting in the candelight. The rune Ansuz was carved into the tile. She ran a painted fingernail over the design, a vertical line with two parallel lines angling off the right side. It reminded Flint of a squashed version of the Elvenari letter 'F'. "This is important." Her nail tapped the ivory. Her entire hand was covered in elaborate henna designs. "Ansuz is the 4th rune by the Northmen's reckoning, an auspicious number relating to the four directions of the wind." A raven watching from a nearby stand said, "Northman. Nor

Suddenly, the fighting died away. From the castle wall, archers and healers were scrambling down ladders and ropes. Both groups found more arrows and bodies than expected. Echoes of horns and drums sounded from various distances, sending commands and queries to those that understood. The field beyond the Duke's castle walls was once a lovely garden. Now it was a ruined expanse of dead and dying horses and fighters. Hooves from enormous cavalry steeds had ravaged the lawn, leaving it as pocked as the Duke's jousting ground. Burning wagons and siege towers left black, smoking scars. Some of the Elvenari Sisterhood were already walking among the twisted shapes of armored combatants, motioning for stretchers when they found someone alive from either side. Torben found himself squishing through mud that oozed with horse blood as he gathered a handful of decent arrows that could fly again. His little Rock Dragon rode on his shoulder and squeaked in dismay at the unpleasant smel

  There once was a guard at a gate Who thought that the job was just great! His hat was so wide, It shaded his sides, And sunburned no more was his pate. /// Copyright